Our brief, thrilling conversation ended as Krista walked in.
“Oh, wow, babe, you look beautiful,” he said as she smiled, posing with her hand on her hip just like we had in pageants.
Once we’d all stepped outside, I realized he looked nicer than usual, too, in a sports coat and a sweater vest.
“Were we supposed to dress up?” I asked Krista quietly, feeling like I was about to walk into an exam I hadn’t prepared for.
I thought back on my last conversation with Mom, wondering if I’d missed some sort of direction. She’d mentioned she needed my help with a Junior League volunteer project this month, asked how the homecoming float was going, and told me that Dad had asked about my upcoming stats test. No mention of dresses or sport coats.
Krista shushed me as we walked to Kyle’s car. I looked at her, confused, as he opened the door for her and handed me a bouquet of flowers from the seat. “Hey, can you hold these back there?”
I took the flowers, feeling even more confused, a familiar anxiousness bubbling inside me when I didn’t know what to expect. That feeling of missing a step, falling, crashing to the ground.
Kyle had been joining us for dinner ever since he and Krista became official three years ago, and I could recall only three times he’d brought flowers: when he’d first met my parents, when dinner had fallen on my mother’s birthday, and when Krista had received her first promotion.
I gave Mom a quick hug as she smoothed my hair before embracing Kyle, fawning over the flowers. I joined Dad in the kitchen where he was putting the finishing touches on the pot roast, knowing he’d want to ask me about school and my accounting exam.
I was grateful to get this conversation out of the way with Krista occupied in the living room, so Dad could focus on something else during dinner, anything but my life — a carbon copy of my sister’s, my version less bright, less impressive than the original.
He listened closely to my updates, committing my assignments and grades to memory, as I glanced at my class schedule tacked up next to my mom’s Junior League schedule on the fridge. The most important dates of my collegiate life were highlighted, just like Krista’s had been before she’d graduated.
Having felt he’d checked the boxes of my academics, Dad asked about other topics at dinner: Krista’s previous quarter, Kyle’s research, Mom’s upcoming pumpkin carving social. After dinner, he suggested we gather outside around the fire pit, saying the fall night was the perfect background to finish our wine. It was so pleasant, so normal, so exactly like every other Sunday, that I’d almost forgotten this night had started off strangely until Kyle got on one knee.
I gasped louder than Krista as he opened the ring box. He told her she was beautiful, she was his everything, she was the sun, and he couldn’t spend another second without her in his life always. I stared at my sister as he spoke. Her perfect smile, her perfect hair, her painted nails, even the dress she wore that photographed even better than it looked in person. She had known this was coming while I was totally blindsided.
“Yes, yes,” she said, teary-eyed, as he slid the ring on her finger.
Mom was crying, and Dad, always stoic and calm, even sounded choked as he toasted to the happy couple, the future Mr. and Mrs. Kyle Thompson. We clinked our glasses of nice champagne Dad must have bought for this very occasion. Kyle must have asked my parents for Krista’s hand before this moment, of course, never one to break tradition, knowing that’s what my parents would have expected and what Krista would have wanted.
I was shocked, so caught off guard, wondering how long she’d been planning this. We told each other everything. I wondered how many lemonade-and-chicken-nugget nights had passed while she’d kept quiet. And I’d missed it.
When she first met Kyle, she’d seemed so breathless when she told me about him. And I’d known, right then and there, that this was it, this was the guy she would marry. She’d laughed at my prediction, shaking her head in that small way of hers, but I knew she agreed. The first time they’d kissed, she came into my bedroom, lying on my carpet as I finished a term paper. She’d smiled up at the ceiling in a way that I knew everything was different. She hadn’t even gotten the words out, and I had known. Years of moments, every single one discussed in detail, every scenario combed over with an eagle eye, every story, every first, retold by her over and over again until I felt like it was mine, too. Until now.
“Baby sis, can you believe it?” she exclaimed, grabbing me into a hug, almost knocking my champagne onto my sweatshirt. She wriggled her fingers, the diamonds sparkling against the fire light.
“I can’t believe it,” I said, squeezing her back hard, not wanting to let go, wanting to remember this moment so we could tell it over and over again.
She pulled away, face flushed and eyes shining, to ask if I would take photos of them. “You’re so good at it,” she said as our mom rushed inside to get the nice camera.
After I’d taken several photos of her and Kyle, her and our parents, her and everyone, I asked Mom to take one of us together. She obliged, not sure how to work the camera properly, the flash somehow too bright, clicking on “two” instead of “three.”
As we left, Dad pulled Krista in a tight hug, saying how proud he was of her. He hugged me, reminding me to let him know how I did on my stats test once I found out.
“I still can’t believe it,” Krista said as we drove home, twisting her fingers with Kyle’s, focused on her sparkling ring. I nodded even though she wasn’t talking to me, not even paying attention.
“Oh, Skylar,” she said as Kyle pulled up to our apartment. “Do you mind sending me the photos? I want to post them. Can you get them to me tonight? Maybe edit them so they look extra amazing?”
I rushed inside to grab my laptop and backpack, knowing that while she did want the photos, she also wanted to celebrate with Kyle which meant she wanted me to leave. So I headed to my usual spot, my usual table, trying to bring some balance back to my life.
I was still reeling as I stepped to the counter.
“Can I get a coffee?” I said, glancing at my phone. Krista had already texted me thank you even though I hadn’t sent her anything yet. It was her subtle way of reminding me to hurry up.
“Decaf, right?”
I texted back, saying I was doing them now, mumbling, “Yeah.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Skylar,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to make sure my bag was visible enough so the couple walking in wouldn’t take my table.
“Skye, got it.”
“No,” I said, sliding my phone back in my pocket and looking up. “Not Skye. Skylar.”
He smiled. “Eh, baristas are kind of known for getting names wrong.”
I blinked, realizing he was the same guy who was always here. As much as I was in this coffee shop, I’d never taken the time to look at who was behind the counter, distracted by my dates or phone.
I kind of laughed, not sure why this transaction was taking longer than its usual 18 seconds. I handed him three dollar bills, and he passed me my change and coffee.
“You didn’t even write my name on the cup,” I said, dropping the extra coins in the tip jar between us.
He shrugged. “I know. I was just curious what your name was.”
I turned, settling down in my seat, glancing at him over my laptop as he took the person’s order behind me. I’d never really looked at him, and as I studied him, I knew why. He was exactly the kind of guy my brain would overlook, not wanting to waste time to catalog or even commit to memory, knowing he was irrelevant.
Tattoos. Piercings. Messy dark hair. No thanks.
I worked on editing Krista’s photos to perfection before zooming in on her ring. It was exactly what she had always wanted, a princess cut with a white gold band. Ever since we were kids, she and I had poured over bridal magazines. She would cut out the same ring over and over again, and I’d paste them in her bridal book. I wondered again how long she’d known this was going
to happen, why hadn’t she told me, but most importantly, why hadn’t I known.
I sent her the photos then pulled up the one Mom had taken, knowing before I even looked at it that she’d botched it. Krista looked beautiful and perfect, but I’d moved at the wrong second, not ready, my face out of focus, my blue sweatshirt a blur. I sighed, glancing at my watch, realizing the shop was about to close. I stood as the barista walked over to me.
“If you’re done, I can toss that,” he said, nodding to my cup.
“Thanks,” I said, not looking up from shoving my laptop in my bag, glancing at my phone again as I headed out the door.
I leaned against my car, checking my phone once more. Krista hadn’t answered, which meant I needed to find something else to do before heading home, not wanting to ruin her night. I sighed, my breath a white stream, annoyed. If she had told me about this, I could have planned better. I could have crashed at Lindy’s apartment, I could have done laundry, I could have even stayed with our parents and watched the nightly news with Dad.
I heard a car beep, and this time, I didn’t jump, spotting the guy walking up, pulling off his apron as he put on a distressed jean jacket.
“Have a good night,” he said on autopilot as he passed me.
“Hey,” I said, turning, not liking that he somehow had more information about me than I did about him. “So what’s your name?”
“Dean,” he said, stopping in front of his car door and turning to face me, our cars between us. “Did you get stood up tonight?”
I stared at him. “What?”
“You were alone, and you’re always there with a different guy.”
“Well, first of all, it’s Sunday,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m never at the coffee shop on Sundays, so it’s inaccurate to assume that I’d be on a date on Sunday at the coffee shop. That introduces way too many variables, so there is literally no data to support your claim.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“And secondly,” I said, pushing off from where I’d been leaning against my car, “I don’t appreciate you implying I’m some sort of coffee shop slut.”
He laughed, his breath coming out white against the cold. “That’s hilarious. Coffee shop slut,” he repeated. “I gotta remember that.”
I glanced at my phone. Krista still hadn’t texted.
“I’m really starting to think you got stood up,” he said as he put his hand on his car door. “Maybe you should try out the coffee shop slut thing. Your dates might end better that way. You wouldn’t end up alone in a parking lot.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “My dates end fine.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “From where I’m standing, they always end with a lame hug.”
I put my phone away, allowing myself to kill some time with this guy as I waited for Krista to say I could return home. He wasn’t my type, but at least this conversation was interesting. I stepped away from my car and walked over to him.
“So, what, you just, like, watch my dates?”
He laughed. “No, but between mochas and macchiatos, I can usually notice when a guy is getting played.”
“I’m not playing these guys,” I said with an eye roll. He didn’t understand. I was collecting data, researching, trying to find the perfect guy. “I actually think it’s nicer to end the date once you know it’s over than waste time dragging things on.”
Under the streetlight, I realized that even though he looked how he did — somewhere between a rebel and a hipster — he was still attractive.
Exactly 74 percent hotter than any guy I’d ever seen.
“Yeah,” he said, considering my response. “But still, those hugs,” he sucked in a breath through his teeth, shaking his head. “Those are weak. Bad, even.”
I almost felt sorry for the guys he was criticizing. “Hey, they aren’t that bad.”
“I mean, if those hugs are that bad, think about how bad everything else might be. Maybe it’s good you’re letting them go before they find out.”
My mouth dropped, and I stepped forward.
“Wait a second, are you saying I’m the reason they’re so bad?”
He smirked and shrugged. “I mean, you’re the only consistent thing in the equation, right? What do they call it, ‘a constant’? I think I remember learning that somewhere.”
I raised an eyebrow, almost laughing. He was funny even though he was annoying. Krista still hadn’t texted, and I suddenly knew exactly how to kill a couple minutes.
“Okay, well, let’s prove it,” I said, stepping forward.
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s test it,” I said with a shrug, standing right in front of him, the streetlight over both of us now. “Constant and a variable.”
He looked me up and down, understanding. Then he leaned down, gently putting his hand on my cheek, sliding it through my hair, cupping the nape of my neck as he pressed his lips against mine, his other arm wrapping around my waist to pull me closer. I hadn’t expected him to be so smooth. It started off soft and slow, so I decided to pull away, thinking this wasn’t really worth my time.
But then I remembered he’d implied I wasn’t good, so I pressed against him more, lightly biting his lower lip. He responded by twisting his fingers in my hair, kissing me harder, more urgently, until somehow, suddenly, kissing him felt so good that I didn’t want to stop. I stepped forward, and he stepped back, leaning against his car, my body completely against his. And as our lips and tongues intertwined, I stopped being able to think. Instead, I could only feel him, the way his hands knew exactly what to do, the way he managed to touch me softly and demandingly at the same time, the way his skin smelled like coffee, how my whole brain felt like explosions, fireworks, and cymbals crashing together. I could only hear us breathing, our hands grazing hair, jewelry, clothes, over jackets, under shirts. His car was cold against my body as he turned, pushing me against it, but I could only feel the heat in our lips, of our skin.
We were still clinging to each other as we untangled, me biting his neck, him biting my lips, tugging my hair as I held on to his jacket, yanking him down so his mouth was still against mine even as we stopped kissing.
He looked at me, stepping away slightly. I noticed his eyes were a rich brown, like the kind of milk chocolate you wanted to bite into and savor, the kind you’d hide away so you wouldn’t have to share.
“Whoa,” I said and checked my watch. “That was ten minutes.”
He laughed, pushing back his messy hair, not making it any better. “You were timing it?”
I laughed and shook my head as my phone vibrated in my pocket. “Sorry, it’s my…” I trailed off with a shrug, not really feeling like I owed him an explanation. Krista’s gratitude for the photos poured in emoji after emoji.
I moved off his car and righted my sweatshirt, looking up at him with a smile. My lips were on fire, still tingling from that kiss.
“So, thoughts?”
He nodded, opening his car door, and flashed his own smile.
“Yeah, I mean, I don’t really remember most of science class, but I think we just proved my hypothesis wrong.”
“Good. Just so you know, I’m not bad at things,” I called over my car as he slid into his seat. He grinned and closed his door.
I pressed my fingers over my lips as I drove home, shaking my head every so often as I relived that moment. When I walked into the apartment, I was careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb Krista or Kyle, not wanting her to come out and see me, not wanting to risk that she’d look at me and instantly realize what I’d just done.
In my bedroom, I opened my date notebook, flipping past the page where I’d listed Samuel’s pros and cons.
Dean, I wrote and then paused.
I knew Krista would read through my notes after my date tomorrow, like always, and I didn’t want her to know about this. And I certainly couldn’t catalog what had just happened as a date. I wouldn’t catalog that as really anything. Just a way to kill time, to
have a secret like Krista for who knows how long. Just something for myself. I crossed through his name, pressing down hard with my pen until his name was gone, just a black messy blob of ink, dark as the night sky.
CHAPTER TWO
We were surrounded by crepe paper, crunching and crunching, threading sheets into chicken wire, creating small poofs over and over again.
“Okay, I need a break,” Lindy said, flexing her hand and dropping a piece of white crepe paper on the ground.
I picked it up, methodically threading it through the chicken wire that formed our homecoming float, and rolled my eyes.
“Lindy, good Student Government Association committee members don’t take breaks.”
She laughed, leaning back on her palms in the parking lot, and studied the half-decorated float in front of us.
“But as the SGA Student Outreach committee chair, I have to strike the right balance between leader and worker bee,” she said with a laugh, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder. “I don’t want freshmen to think I’m building this homecoming float for them.”
I laughed, crunching a piece of blue paper in my hand, threading it next to a white poof. “As vice chair, what does that mean for me?”
She patted my shoulder and stood. “You keep poofing.”
As she headed toward the snack table she’d made sophomores committee members assemble on the grass, my phone chimed with a message from one of my dating apps.
“Ooh, he’s cute,” Lindy said, looking over my shoulder as she sat back down, handing me a crunchy chocolate chip cookie. “Is he a Monday guy or a Thursday guy?”
I peered closer at his profile picture. His name was Brad, and he was really handsome. I clicked to his profile, reading in his bio that he was an economics major, he liked baseball, and he was 23. I flipped through photos of him in a baseball stadium, outside at a park, at the lake. Shirtless.
“He might be a Friday guy,” I said, clicking to his message. He’d asked me out to dinner. I suggested getting coffee instead.
“Friday?” Lindy said, raising her eyebrows. “Dang, all it takes is for the guy to like math?”
A Guy Like Him Page 2
